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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372133">Omnes Una Manent Nox</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Woodville/pseuds/Elizabeth_Woodville'>Elizabeth_Woodville</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The West Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, Filling in the Blanks for ItSoTG 1&amp;2, Hurt, but that's TWW for ya, can be read as pre-Josh/Donna, maybe comfort if you squint a lil bit, religious themes mentioned, this is pretty dialogue heavy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:48:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Woodville/pseuds/Elizabeth_Woodville</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The same night awaits us all...</p><p>People come and go throughout the night, flitting in and out in a whirlwind of coffee and hushed voices.</p><p>Donna and Sam don’t leave. They remain as the two lone sentries, flitting in and out of various states of shock. </p><p>(Donna goes through five cups of bland, room-temperature coffee during those fourteen hours. </p><p>Fourteen hours, and all Donna can do is toy with a thread on her jeans. There’s a hole in the knee, denim frayed and worn. </p><p>She felt like that thread— taut and worn, very near the breaking point.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Omnes Una Manent Nox</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I watched West Wing for the first time about a year ago. Late March, I started this. I've had it on the backburner for awhile, and the last time I edited it was January 5th, a mere 24 hours before I'd tune in to see the horrors of the Capitol Riots on the news.<br/>I love this show, I loved these episodes, and I've coped with a lot of the insanity of the past year by thinking about the good people of the Bartlet Administration. These episodes came out when I was 10 months old, and yet, over 20 years later, these feelings are as relevant as ever. As a political science student, it both terrifies me and gives me hope.<br/>I've decided this piece says all it needs to for the time being, and I just wanted to get it out into the open. Maybe I'll touch it up later, but for now, here goes nothing...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Monday, August 7th, 2000.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s blood all over her hands.</p><p> </p><p>Josh’s head is propped up with Toby’s jacket. </p><p>In the background, she can hear Sam on the phone with the 911 operator. </p><p>Sam is calm in a crisis. He’ll lose it later, she realizes. She’s the opposite. </p><p>She can hardly breathe herself, listening to Sam converse with the operator. </p><p>Her vision tunnels. </p><p>She grabs his hand, the one that’s not clutching his chest. It’s covered in blood.</p><p>“Josh,” she says gently.</p><p>He’s fighting, she realizes. He can’t get the words out, and he can’t move, but that won’t stop him. </p><p>“Josh,” she repeats. “I need you to stay still, alright?”</p><p>“See—"</p><p>“Sh-h,” Toby murmurs. </p><p>“Josh, I can’t help you if you keep moving—"</p><p>He tries to speak but ends up coughing up blood instead. </p><p>“Turn him on his side,” Toby says.</p><p>“We can’t—"</p><p>“Sam, what are they saying?”</p><p>“They’ll be here in four minutes—"</p><p>“That’s too long!”</p><p>“Toby—"</p><p>She tunes the white noise out, too focused on stupid, stupid Josh— his fluttering pulse, his gasps, the shaking of his hands. The EMTs arrive, shoving her and Sam and Toby out of the way.</p><p>The EMTs scissor his jacket and shirt, carefully maneuvering him onto a backboard. There’s a jumble of medical jargon, oxygen and tubes and needles because Josh’s lung collapsed in on itself. But they’re off in the ambulance, and she doesn’t let go of his hand. </p><p>“He keeps trying to talk, I need you to keep him calm,” the paramedic tells her.</p><p>“Josh, you’re gonna be okay,” she says again.</p><p>He motions, pointing to her.</p><p>“I’m okay, Josh. I’m fine.”</p><p>Someone pulled her down.</p><p>Josh didn’t get pulled down.</p><p>They hit a pothole or something, and he yelped in pain, squeezing her hand.</p><p>“Squeeze my hand,” she says. </p><p>His head lolls. “Hey, stay with me, champ. Attaboy.” </p><p>He squeezes her hand tighter. </p><p>“Just stay with me, buddy,” she says. “Keep holding my hand, alright?”</p><p>His grip tightens. His eyes are wild, panicked. </p><p>He’s scared.</p><p>“Not going anywhere, pal,” C.J. says. “Neither are you, you hear me?”</p><p>She doesn’t know if Josh gets it or not. </p><p>She doesn’t realize her hands are covered in Josh Lyman’s blood until she’s standing in the doorway, watching the man in question disappear into the blank white hall. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 9:56 p.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Donna arrived in a frenzy.</p><p>The news of the shooting had broke about an hour ago, when she’d received a frantic call from Margaret. </p><p>“‘Lo?”</p><p>“Donna,” she’d breathed. “Are you at home?”</p><p>“Yeah, wh—”</p><p>“Turn on the news,” Margaret had continued. “Mrs. Landingham and I are almost there, but they’re shutting down the coast.”</p><p>“Shutting… what?”</p><p>“Subways, taxis, planes, trains, all of it.”</p><p>The TV flashed on. <em> Breaking. Shots Fired.  </em></p><p>“Oh my God…” </p><p>“They’re at GW.”</p><p>“Oh, God.”</p><p>“We… we don’t know anything yet,” she whispered. “I’ve tried Leo, like, six times, but he’s useless with phones and I don’t—”</p><p>“Stop that, Margaret,” Mrs. Landingham’s voice came over the speaker. “Donna—”</p><p>“I’ll meet you there,” she said, hanging up. </p><p>She was forever grateful she’d kept the bike from her college days, skirting down K Street in the dark. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 10:07 p.m.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Josh keeps talking about New Hampshire.</p><p>Sam doesn’t know what more to say, and Josh doesn’t seem to hear him. </p><p>So he clutches his best friend’s hand, sticky and red with blood, through the ambulance ride, more to keep him still than anything. </p><p>It doesn’t feel <em> real, </em>standing there until the nurses and doctors shuffle them out into the hall.</p><p>He stands there, frozen in place, staring at the door through which Josh disappeared. </p><p>“Sam?” Toby asks. Sam thinks he’s probably been asking for awhile. </p><p>He doesn’t answer, but lurches over to the trashcan, throwing up until his stomach is wringing in dry heaves. When those finally stop, he still feels sick. </p><p>“Sam, c’mon, man,” Toby says. </p><p>“Stop that, Toby,” C.J. admonishes. Toby’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “He’s—”</p><p>“He’ll be alright,” Toby says firmly. “Just a little shocky.”</p><p>Sam met Toby’s gaze for a moment.</p><p>For all his harshness, the man cared. Deeply. </p><p>That, and he knew Sam well enough to know that he needed stability. Toby was there to keep him grounded while everything spiraled. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. </p><p>“Just a little shaken,” Toby repeated, ignoring Sam’s remark. “Takes more than that to take Sam Seaborn, right?”</p><p>He finds himself nodding, swallowing back the acrid taste of bile. Toby hands him a handkerchief. </p><p>“You gonna be alright?”</p><p>Sam nods again, heat rising in his cheeks.</p><p>C.J. eyes him suspiciously, though not unsympathetically. “Sit down.”</p><p>He practically collapses in the seat beside C.J. </p><p>“Here,” Toby said, handing him a folder and a stack of papers. “Start writing.”</p><p>Sam looks up, looking for all the world like a little kid. “What?”</p><p>“Pen. Paper. Write.”</p><p>“What… what could I possibly… what am I supposed to say?”</p><p>“People are gonna start asking questions,” Toby says, far gentler than anyone thought Toby could be. “They… I don’t have answers, Toby, I don’t know how, and I can’t—” </p><p>“They don’t want answers, Sam. They want comfort. They need us to be strong because they’re scared.”</p><p>“They don’t get to be scared,” Sam mutters. “They weren’t there.”</p><p>“Sam.”</p><p>“They don’t get to be scared,” he repeated. “You want me to comfort the American people, Toby? Because they’re <em> scared?” </em></p><p>“Sam—”</p><p>“Josh was scared, Toby,” he spat. “He was scared outta his mind, and the only comfort we could give him was making sure his head didn’t hit the concrete while he bled out!”</p><p>“Write for Josh, then,” Toby replies calmly. “Comfort Josh. He needs us to be strong because he’s scared. And you know damn well he’s gonna want answers.”</p><p>He didn’t realize he was shaking until Toby pulled him down into a chair across from him. </p><p>“Where… how do I even… how do I start?”</p><p>Toby smiled slightly. “Usually with a capital letter. When you can’t start with facts, write from the heart.”</p><p>“Overuse of pathos breeds bias,” Sam said, repeating what Toby’d told him before.</p><p>“I’m not saying we publish this in the <em> Times</em>, Sam,” Toby said. “I’m saying, don’t write for the people yet. Write for yourself.”</p><p>Sam takes the proffered papers, scrubs his eyes with his sleeve, and starts scribbling away.  </p><p>C.J. meets Toby’s eyes. </p><p>She smiles, a thin, tight, weary smile. </p><p>She wishes there was more she could give.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>Sam writes. He scribbles and scratches out vague meaningless phrases, attempting to puzzle them together into a semi-coherent pattern. His whole life, writing had been his way of understanding, a way to make sense of all the terrible things that happened around him.  It calmed him. It was as if a river wound its way through his mind, the waters growing calm as the words came cascading down to rest on a blank piece of paper. The tidal lull of the words flowing over him. Catharsis. </p><p>So, he wrote.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 10:24 p.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The next fifteen minutes are a daze, a mad scramble for information, desperately pleading, for someone, anyone to tell her something—</p><p>Margaret practically drags her into a closed off waiting room. </p><p>The President’s gonna be fine, they’d said. </p><p>She’s relieved.</p><p>Goddamn it all, she’s relieved. Seeing C.J. and Toby and Sam, safe and here, and—</p><p>Josh.</p><p>
  <em> Josh. Hit. Critical. </em>
</p><p>“I— I don’t understand,” she’d choked out.</p><p>She doesn’t remember slumping down in the chair next to Charlie, C.J.’s hand on her shoulder. They both murmur something before getting up and leaving in opposite directions. </p><p>She can feel Toby’s gaze lingering on her back. Sam is still sitting diagonal from her, and he turns in his chair to face her. There are tears in his eyes.</p><p>“Donna?”</p><p>“You gonna be okay?”</p><p>She sniffled, sitting up straighter. “‘S a stupid question, Sam.”</p><p>“Are you?”</p><p>“Don’t worry about me,” she says, her own voice sounding foreign in her ears. “What do we know?”</p><p>Toby stands, obviously desperate to get out of the room. “I’m gonna see what Leo needs, talk with C.J.”</p><p>“What do you need from me?” Sam asks.</p><p>Toby shakes his head. “I’ll let you know, but for now…”</p><p>“I hate waiting,” Sam replies. “Here. It’s not much, but—”</p><p>Toby takes the proffered papers. “Call, if anything...”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>The door closes behind him and Donna turns in her chair. “You’re already working on a statement?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“What… what could you possibly say?”</p><p>“It’s not… that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I’m just trying to get myself organized,” he said, running a hand through his already tousled hair. </p><p>“Is it working?”</p><p>“Not really,” he murmured. “Usually... “</p><p>“Writing fixes things for you,” she finished. </p><p>“If only.”</p><p>She inhaled sharply, turning to face him fully. “How bad is it, really?”</p><p>“Bad,” he said simply.</p><p>“Was he… was he conscious?”</p><p>“Josh or the President?”</p><p>Donna looked ashamed suddenly, realizing she hadn’t even thought about the President. “Both.”</p><p>“Well, the President was joking the whole way in, arguing with Agent Butterfield,” Sam said. “Josh was delirious.”</p><p>“From the blood loss?” </p><p>Her question sounded childish, like her thought process wasn’t fully formed.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“You were with him,” she stated simply.</p><p>“Not when he… I wasn’t… I just—" </p><p><em> Christ, </em> why were words so <em> hard </em> for him today?</p><p>Donna had the patience of a saint. </p><p>“Toby found him,” he said finally, words falling into place like an unwelcome admittance.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Sam looks at his pen. “We’re gonna fix this.”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“I don’t know. But we will.”</p><p>Donna shrugs half heartedly and slumps a little more in her seat.</p><p>Sam continues his frantic scribbling.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 10:32 p.m. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The car ride to the White House is silent. Toby gazes out the window, C.J. stares at her hands neatly folded in her lap. </p><p>It’s a short ride, but neither of them notice. Their minds remain firmly planted in the waiting room of George Washington University Hospital.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 10:38 p.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Toby makes his way to his office. </p><p>There’s something comforting about the rhythmic <em> ker-plunk-chink, ker-plunk- chink ker-plunk-chink </em>of a rubber ball, bouncing from hand to floor to wall to hand again. </p><p>It’s a metronome, keeping time.</p><p>
  <em> (He could feel Josh’s thready pulse, wavering. His hands are shaking, and Josh’s are covered with blood.) </em>
</p><p>He was a New Yorker. One of six kids, growing up in a little house in Brighton Beach, Toby Ziegler was no stranger to noise.</p><p>In fact he welcomes it.</p><p>
  <em> (Not the sound of labored, pained breaths, choking on air, blood bubbling at his mouth, coughing, gagging— he couldn’t get it out of his head.) </em>
</p><p>Silence is what really irks him. </p><p><em> (Josh tried to say something, </em> he thought. <em> What was he trying to tell me?) </em></p><p>Like any writer, he could stand for some quiet, pensive solitude. But between his childhood home and his current place of employment, silence was never a lengthy affair.</p><p><em> (What’s taking them so long? </em> He’d asked C.J. <em> The paramedics are taking too long—) </em></p><p>It’s why he gets along so well with Josh, he thinks. Josh is a hurricane, never stopping.</p><p><em> (C’mon, Josh, stay with me, man…) </em> </p><p>The Spalding ricochets, knocking a mug of pens off the desk.</p><p>He could put a brave face on for Sam, but Toby was a pragmatist.</p><p>A realist.</p><p>And right now, reality was Josh Lyman bleeding out on the sidewalk. </p><p>Reality was Sam throwing up in the hospital waiting room. </p><p>Reality was Zoey Bartlet with her head on her mother’s shoulder, asleep, looking so incredibly young. Abbey, looking so weary.</p><p>Donna with her doe-eyes, looking utterly horrified, collapsing with her head in her hands. He’d never get that image out of his head.</p><p>Reality was C.J., crying silently in the car, wiping her eyes and checking her reflection in the window so reporters wouldn’t see her smudged mascara.</p><p> Reality was these fuckers who tried to <em> kill Charlie—</em></p><p>Reality was not preferable. </p><p>It was terrifying.</p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 10:39 p.m.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>C.J. had learned at a young age how to be impenetrable.</p><p>She’d been in <em>Hollywood,</em> for Christ’s sake, she’d perfected the mask of her public persona. </p><p>She remembered being seven or so, her brothers being morons. They’d teased her about something. It was strange, being young enough to seek her mother for comfort, and yet feeling too old to be held and comforted the way she’d been her whole life. She let her mother brush her hair out of her eyes, dry her tears, and hold her for a moment.</p><p><em> “Don’t be sorry, Claudia Jean,” </em> she’d said. <em> “You’re far too young to be so impenetrable.” </em></p><p>Any other child might have been daunted by the big word. <em> “Impenetrable means strong.” </em></p><p><em> “There are many types of strength,” </em> her mother had replied. <em> “Just don’t ever let them make a cynic out of you.” </em></p><p><em> “They won’t know what to make of me, Mama,” </em>she’d said, sounding far too fierce for one so young. Her mother had laughed at that. </p><p> </p><p>She’d never been one for hysterics, not even tears. </p><p>She remembers her mother’s funeral. Her brothers at her side, her father, distraught. </p><p><em> “Little Claudia Jean,” </em> one of the relatives had said. <em> “She’s grown up nicely.” </em></p><p><em> “Hmmph,” </em> someone interjected. “ <em> She hasn’t shed a tear.” </em></p><p><em> “Well,” </em> another replied, <em> “somebody’s got to hold those boys together.” </em></p><p>Damn right. </p><p>All of seventeen, and she was the superglue holding the Creggs together.</p><p>Impenetrable.</p><p>Strength.</p><p>What they didn’t know is that she’d been up ‘til four in the morning, keeping herself busy with a frenzied cleaning spree until she ended upon the kitchen floor, back against the dishwasher, holding her mom’s favorite mug, weeping.</p><p>C.J. felt in private. Broke in solitude. </p><p>Her foundation was rapidly crumbling, but she would not break. </p><p>Someone had to hold these boys together. </p><p>She was impenetrable.</p><p>Tommy and Mark were older than she was, grown men with children of their own. They no longer needed her mothering.</p><p>On the other hand, Toby was breaking things in his office. Sam was coming apart at the seams, and Josh was…</p><p>Well.</p><p>Josh didn’t have a big sister anymore.</p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>C.J. had heard the story of Joanie Lyman one late night on the campaign trail. </p><p>She could see it still. A drunken, tearful Josh, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. The cadence of his words was off, somehow, yet it was soothing when it was separated from the meaning behind it.</p><p> Sam, snoring quietly beside him, head lolling onto Josh’s shoulder. Toby, a row ahead, quietly reading a paper. Donna curled up in the corner like a cat, MP3 still blaring on the seat beside her.</p><p>“She was supposed to be mitzvahed, y’know? She woulda turned thirteen four months later. My parents used the money they’d saved for her bat mitzvah to pay for her funeral. She never got to be a woman,” he said quietly. “She just got dead.”</p><p>“How old were you?” came C.J.’s voice, low and soothing, a clinical yet sympathetic tone. </p><p>“Seven,” he’d replied. “She was watching me, when it...”</p><p>He inhaled shakily, taking a deep sip of his drink. “Told me to go outside, that she’d be right there. Right behind me. Only, thing was... she wasn’t. She wasn’t behind me. </p><p>They found her on the stairs. She’d made it to her room, grabbed her stupid violin, and she was halfway down the stairs when they gave way or the roof collapsed or— or— I dunno. All I know’s she was trapped. Couldn’t get out.”</p><p>“Josh—“</p><p>“She burned alive.”</p><p>
  <em> And what was she supposed to say to that? </em>
</p><p>“According to the Torah, you aren’t supposed to burn a body,” he continued, rambling now. “It’s not natural. Something about how it forces the soul from the body. It rips the soul out, tears it all apart.”</p><p>“Christ, Josh...”</p><p>“It’s not natural,” he repeated. “She was twelve, and her soul got ripped out of her while she burned alive. I remember reading that passage in Temple when I was taking Bar Mitzvah lessons. I threw up in the back hallway, called my Dad to come get me. </p><p>I remember begging him not to make me go. I just couldn’t...”</p><p>He stared out the window. <em> “Yitgadal v’yitgadash shmei raba,” </em> he whispered. “How can I exalt, sanctify, and glorify a God who let my sister burn alive?”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 11:00 p.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>C.J. stood awkwardly beside the doorframe. Toby had his head down, lips moving in a murmured prayer.</p><p>He looked up, just as she was hesitating to knock. </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>“Zeigler’s White House Synagogue, how can I help you?”</p><p>“I’m a lapsed Catholic, I don’t think there’s much you can do for me.” she paused. “What’d it mean?”</p><p>“<em> Heal us, O Lord, and we shall be healed, save us, and we shall be saved,” </em>he said, not missing a beat.</p><p>“That’s poetic.”</p><p>“It’s only poetry if it does what it’s supposed to,” Toby said, heading for the door and hitting the lights.</p><p>“Funny thing about Jews and Catholics,” she said.</p><p>“Is this the set up to a joke?”</p><p>“The guilt complex,” C.J. said, exhaling. “There’s nothing you could’ve done differently. Stop blaming yourself.”</p><p>“I know I’m not to blame,” he said quietly. “I realized that when I saw them bring the body bags out of the Newseum.”</p><p>C.J. was silent. </p><p>“Deliver us from evil, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” Toby continued, lighting a cigar. “That’s the part about Catholicism I don’t get.”</p><p>“Forgiveness?”</p><p>“Old Testament wasn’t all ‘forgive-and-forget,’ ‘let bygones be bygones’.”</p><p>“I never saw it as a prayer for forgiveness,” she admitted. “Just a prayer for bread.”</p><p>“Well,” Toby replied. “We Jews have many a prayer for bread.”</p><p>“I’m glad we can agree on that.”</p><p>“You’re going back to the hospital?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she said.</p><p> “Have you heard anything else, or—?”</p><p>“Nothing yet,” C.J. said. “In the meantime, let’s just hope your magic words do what they’re supposed to.” </p><p>Toby chuckled, running a hand over his face. “You’re somethin’ else, C.J.”</p><p>“I try.”</p><p>Somebody had to hold these boys together. </p><p>It might as well be her.</p><p>The Impenetrable Claudia Jean.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>People come and go throughout the night, flitting in and out in a whirlwind of coffee and hushed voices.</p><p>Donna and Sam don’t leave. They remain as the two lone sentries, flitting in and out of various states of shock. </p><p>(Donna goes through five cups of bland, room-temperature coffee during those fourteen hours. </p><p>Fourteen hours, and all Donna can do is toy with a thread on her jeans. There’s a hole in the knee, denim frayed and worn. </p><p>She felt like that thread— taut and worn, very near the breaking point.)</p><p> </p><p>All Sam can do is clutch Donna’s hand like a lifeline and flip idly through the files he’d brought with him. </p><p>Donna clutched Sam’s hand in her left hand, biting the nails on her right. </p><p>(By hour fourteen, she’d chewed them to the quick. Her ring finger was bleeding.)</p><p> </p><p>Sam sipped at the lukewarm can of Coca-Cola he’d got from a vending machine and wondered how he ended up here of all places. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>1989. </em>
</p><p>Sam’s fresh out of law school. He’s young, he’s naive, and he can argue with the best of them. And yet, despite this, he still blushes when the small group of pretty secretaries working for Senator Henriksen wink and smile at him.</p><p> </p><p>Josh came to Washington a year before Sam did. By now, he’s made himself at home: he’s cocky and arrogant, and he flirts with Nina and Lauren and Katie and Simone unabashedly.</p><p>It was a bit intimidating, he remembered, seeing this upstart congressional aide go toe-to-toe with six-term senators from Ohio. </p><p>Guys like Josh were made for this, he realized. Made for lives of fire and brimstone politics. He told him that once. </p><p>“You speak political jargon like a preacher in the pulpit,” he’d said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Fire and brimstone.”</p><p>Josh snorted. “If I’m the Jewish Jonathan Edwards, what’s that make you?”</p><p>Sam smiled over his glasses. “I’d like to think we’re Malcolm and Martin. Fervor and fury, dreams and peace. Two ways of achieving the same goal. The call to action, and the passion which answers… that’s what matters, right?”</p><p>“Mighty poetic of you, Mother Teresa.”</p><p>“I try,” he said. “But make no mistake: I’m no softie, Josh. I’m not you. But I’m not soft.”</p><p>Josh lifted his RedBull. “Cheers to that.”</p><p>Josh was made for this. But he shouldn’t be made to suffer for it.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> Two Years Ago. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” he’d blurted, coffee spilling onto his briefing. </p><p>Leo just looked at him. “Are you stupid?”</p><p>“Depends on who you ask,” Josh muttered. </p><p>“‘Cause you certainly aren’t funny, if that’s what you’re going for.”</p><p>“I resent that, and I—”</p><p>“Is anybody really cut out for this? Honestly, Josh, you think we were all just born to serve at the president’s pleasure?”</p><p>Josh didn’t answer.</p><p>“The White House is still standing, can’t ask for much more than that.”</p><p>“Are we talking about structural integrity or moral architecture? ‘Cause you might get two different answers there.”</p><p>“Nobody’s dead and nothing’s been set on fire, Josh, I’d say we’re doing pretty damn well.”</p><p>Josh scoffed. “If you say so.”</p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> Present. 11:53 p.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was a scuffling of feet and Leo turned to face whoever it was who was no doubt coming to bother him now.</p><p>“Leo?”</p><p>Shit. </p><p>He couldn’t get pissed at Donna.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Donna looked away, eyes flitting away nervously. “What do I do now?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“What do I do, Leo?” she repeated. “At the office, there’s so much to do, and I don’t… where do I even start?”</p><p>Leo sighed. “Kid, I wish I had an answer for you. Don’t worry about the office right now, okay?”</p><p>“Oh. Okay.”</p><p>“He’s gonna be fine.”</p><p>
  <em> He has to be.  </em>
</p><p>Donna nods, but looks unconvinced. </p><p>She stands there awkwardly for a moment before retreating to the waiting room and sitting beside Sam. </p><p>Leo half wishes he knew what to say to console her. </p><p>What the hell do you say when lives are in the balance?</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> Present. 11:55 p.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They balanced each other out, really.</p><p>Their creative process went something like this:</p><p>Josh has an idea. He writes about it.</p><p>He has at least nine pages of semi-coherent ramblings. Sam, depending on his mood, his workload, and his level of patience, either weeds out the parts that don’t make sense or emphasizes the points that do.</p><p>Josh goes around, discretely searching out support, scrounging for additional information on the topic. Sam takes Josh’s notes and starts putting the words to music. </p><p>They talk through the night, Josh goes through four RedBulls and a box of Zebra Cakes, and manages to break no fewer than five pens before the night’s over. Sam can hardly read his own writing at this point, head swimming with ideas.</p><p>Josh is the one who strikes the match and lets it burn. Sam’s task is to douse the flames, either with water or gasoline.</p><p>It’s a pretty good system. </p><p>They don’t mean to, but they learn a lot about each other this way.</p><p>There’s the Thanksgiving where Sam’s parents have all but forgotten him. Josh fully intends to work through the national holiday. His mother, of course, has very different plans, so he drags Sam up to New Haven for the weekend. They end up camped out in Josh’s childhood bedroom, Josh sprawled on the floor, rummaging through files on the latest in Republican human rights violations, Sam is flopped on Josh’s old bed gazing up at the popcorn ceiling. </p><p>There’s the time he gets Sam so drunk he cries over the ASPCA commercial on TV. There’s the time Josh gets so drunk he tells Sam about his dead sister. </p><p>They spend three years doing this. He’s not sure when or how he tells Josh he’s leaving for New York.</p><p>He’s not sure when they stop really talking. </p><p>But he does know that— five years later— when Josh comes and finds him at Gage Whitney, everything falls back into place. </p><p>Right back into the song they were singing. Same song, different verse.</p><p>And suddenly, their old dynamic is back. </p><p>He’ll never forget that first moment on Election Night. Josh is elated, and also a little drunk, he kisses Sam on the cheek, and C.J full on the lips, he practically jumps Toby, who’s got his fist in the air like the guy from <em> The Breakfast Club. </em>C.J. is laughing hysterically, but there are tears in her eyes too. </p><p>Josh was vivacious, his whole being radiated electricity. He was charged, poised like a zippo lighter over a fuse. </p><p>Seeing him fall like a marionette whose strings had been cut… that wasn’t Josh Lyman. It couldn’t be.</p><p>He wished to God it hadn’t been.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 11:57 p.m.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“When I told Josh I’d go with him to D.C.,” Sam murmured, laughing bitterly in spite of himself. “I never thought this would be part of the resume.”</p><p>“I don’t think he did either,” Donna said. “I don’t think any of us thought….”</p><p>She trailed off, leaving Sam standing in the verbal dust. </p><p>“He never signed up for this.”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>“You remember back before the whole Mendoza thing? When the ceiling in Josh’s office broke?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“He was being… well—”</p><p>“Overdramatic?”</p><p>“I was gonna say he was being <em> Josh </em>about it,” she said, smiling slightly at the memory of Josh’s indignation. “And he said something, and I can’t get it out of my head, just— not so much what he said, but what I told him.”</p><p>Sam looked at her, clearly puzzled. “Why, what’d you tell him?”</p><p>“He said something like, ‘I could’ve died.’ And I told him that… I said I didn’t have that kind of luck.”</p><p>“Donna.”</p><p>“I can’t stop thinking about it!”</p><p>“He knew you were joking,” Sam said. “Donna, you and Josh do this all the time, he knew—”</p><p>“What if he didn’t, Sam?” </p><p>“That was November, Donna, he probably forgot.”</p><p>“What if I... What if… what if he doesn’t and I don’t get to tell him?”</p><p>Sam takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’ll get to tell him. Really.”</p><p>“You don’t know that.”</p><p>“I know that when he hears that, he’ll think you’re crazy,” Sam smirks. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> October, 1999.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s a Friday night, and he stays at the office long after everyone else is gone. </p><p>“Go home, Josh,” Leo said.</p><p>“That’s a little hypocritical of you,” he countered.</p><p>“It’s incredibly hypocritical of me,” he replied. “Now go home.”</p><p>“I’ve got stuff to do.”</p><p>“You’ve been staring at the same piece of paper for 45 minutes.”</p><p>“I’m taking it in,” he snapped.</p><p>“Josh.”</p><p>Josh said nothing, avoiding the man’s gaze. Leo took that as his cue to take a seat.</p><p>“It’s a Friday night.”</p><p>“I have a meeting with a couple of committee chairs on Monday.”</p><p>“Subcommittees,” Leo amended. </p><p>“Does it matter?”</p><p>“Not in the slightest,” Leo continued. “Which proves my point. Go home, Josh.”</p><p>“I’ve... I’ve got so much to do, Leo,” he said in a small voice. </p><p>Leo just smiled, opening a file folder. “How ‘bout we order some food and get cracking, eh?”</p><p>Leo knew, he realized. </p><p>He knew why Josh didn’t celebrate his birthday. Knew the importance of the day that came exactly 14 days after. Why year after year, for that stretch of October leading into the early days of November, Josh was almost impossible to deal with. </p><p>He remembered. </p><p>Leo, of course, had known his parents. He’d met the Lyman children around the time Josh was in first grade. </p><p>He’d been to the funeral. Saw Becky Lyman dissolve into tears, crumbling in her husband’s arms. Watched Noah Lyman kneel before his little boy, fixing his collar, whispering something to the child before taking him by the hand. </p><p>He remembers that he went home and held his own four-year-old Mallory a little tighter that night. </p><p>Leo knew. </p><p>Leo also knew Josh. Which meant that he knew his deputy wouldn’t want to speak about it or dwell on it. He’d bury himself in work, in papers and policies and places most people had never heard of. He’d escape into problems he could fix.</p><p>They were kindred spirits that way, Leo thought.</p><p>“I always forget you knew my dad,” Josh spoke up. </p><p>“You had more important things to do,” Leo said with a slight smirk. “Your poor mother couldn’t keep you still long enough to introduce you to people.” </p><p>“Joanie, actually,” he said casually. “She was the problem child.” His grin faltered, and he turned to face Leo. ”You were there, weren’t you?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he said gently. “I was there.”</p><p>“I don’t remember a lot of it,” Josh said. “Bits and pieces, really.”</p><p>“You were a kid, Josh.”</p><p>“I was old enough,” he said dryly. </p><p>“When Mal was eight, she still slept with a nightlight,” Leo said. “She still needed help tying her shoes. Were you any different?”</p><p>Josh shrugged. </p><p>“You were a kid,” Leo repeated. “You did what you were supposed to do.”</p><p>“It’s been twenty- five years,” Josh said. “And I still can’t bring myself to believe that.”</p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 12:32 a.m.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo walks into his Deputy’s office. </p><p>This little corner of the bullpen is startlingly silent. </p><p>Because it’s usually Josh wandering these halls and making noise, he thought. </p><p>It’s all very Josh. </p><p>He’d never really taken it all in, usually stopping by for a quick memo or lecture before making his way elsewhere.</p><p>There are political cartoons and newspaper clippings lining the walls, framed and hung with reverence, the same way a young Mallory would hang her drawings and spelling tests on the fridge.  </p><p>Photographs encircle his degrees.</p><p>It was easy to forget, or not even notice, that Josh Lyman was a sentimental man. He was ineffable, unshakeable. Sam once said Josh was the best negotiator since Henry Clay, and Leo didn’t disagree. He played his emotions close to his chest, but he was a sap.</p><p>The image of a young boy, unmistakably Josh, sitting with a young girl on the steps of a synagogue. His parents’ wedding photo, a young Josh and his grandfather, Josh and his parents at his graduation from Harvard. Josh and Sam, looking younger and more carefree than Leo ever remembered them being. </p><p>His eyes linger on a photo of Josh and his father. </p><p>Christ, Josh was 36. He wouldn’t be 37 ‘til October.</p><p>He was hardly old enough to be President himself.</p><p>There was one of those little stress balls on his desk, the crescent imprints of fingernails embedded in the cheap foam.  A mug with a collection of dulled pencils and inkless pens. A notepad half filled with scribbled notes. </p><p><em> AZ-6, MI-8, FL- 15 </em>was scrawled across the top of the page in red ink. </p><p><em>H.R. 93006. Call Gallagher (PA 9th)</em> <em>Sanchez Henriksen Fuller Detweiler Pedersen Blake.</em></p><p>Sam’s penmanship had jotted a reminder in the margins: <em> Lunch with Sam 8/2 </em></p><p>
  <em> FP Report on Azerbaijan (THURS.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 7/30 Briefing- SEE C.J. </em>
</p><p><em> Thai Place? M-F 11-10, S-S 12-8 pm. </em> </p><p><em> Sen. Appr. Com. @ 1:30, </em> was written in Donna’s neat writing, followed by <em> Hoynes @ 2:00. </em></p><p>
  <em> Check with Leo on th </em>
</p><p>The rest was blotted out by a coffee stain, illegible. What did Josh want to check with him? </p><p>A half empty cup of coffee was still next to his keyboard. A <em> Bartlet for America </em>bumper sticker on the filing cabinet, next to a photo of the team on Inauguration Day. </p><p>C.J. was smiling on like a proud mother, taller than Josh in her heels. Toby’s typical poker face was replaced by the slight quirk of a grin. Even with the shitty photo quality, the joyous sparkle in Sam’s blue eyes was vividly apparent. Josh looked almost giddy, like a little boy on Christmas morning. Leo had a hand on his shoulder, beaming. </p><p>January 20th, 1999. </p><p>Honestly, the whole room looks the same, and he’s not sure why, but it’s bothering him. Like Josh stepped outside for a moment, ran to get a bite to eat, off to yell at someone for something. For whatever reason, the chair is absent from his desk. He’ll have to ask Donna about it later.</p><p>There’s an empty bag of chips on his filing cabinet, a spare pair of shoes peeking out from under the desk. </p><p>There’s a target in the corner above the stereo, the kind they use at gun ranges.</p><p>He grabs it off the shelf, knocking over a stack of CDs in his haste.</p><p>He wants to throw it out the window. Maybe light it on fire and drop it in the Potomac.</p><p>He settles for ripping it in half and cramming it into the deep recesses of the trash. </p><p>There’ll be no fires at the White House tonight. </p><p>They’ll leave that to C.J. in her morning briefing.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 12:49 a.m.   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Has anyone called his mom?” C.J. asked softly. </p><p>“Leo did,” Donna  said numbly.</p><p>“The airports are closed,” Sam said. “How’s she getting here?”</p><p>“Mallory was headed to Boston to visit her mom’s family,” Donna supplied. “Leo called her, filled her in. She’s swinging by Westport to bring her here.”</p><p>“Mallory?”</p><p>“She’s known the Lymans since she was born,” Donna continued. “Mallory’s got more Josh stories than anyone. Well, except Becky.”</p><p>“Becky?”</p><p>“His mom,” she said. “We’ve talked quite a bit. She always calls to check in, and half the time Josh is off doing something or other, so we just talk.”</p><p>“This is what Josh pays you to do?”</p><p>“This is what the federal government pays me to do,” she said with a slight smile. “She’s getting older, she’s lonely.”</p><p>“Josh is an only child, isn’t he?” Toby asked. </p><p>“He had a sister,” C.J. said. </p><p>“Had?”</p><p>“Died. Josh was seven.”</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“His dad died a few years back,” Sam said. “It’s just Josh and his mom now.”</p><p>The room gets even quieter after that. </p><p>There wasn’t much to say that hadn’t already been said in the scratching of Sam’s pen and the silences in between.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span><br/>March 10th, 1998. Illinois. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Josh is reeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s sitting on a hotel bed with a full beer, and his world is coming apart at the seams. And it was supposed to be a good day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a 9:45 flight out of O’Hare to JFK,” Donna announced, walking in.  “Business class okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” he replied, voice absent of any real venom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll get you to New York by midnight,” she continued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an hour’s drive from there to Westport.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are no trains after midnight, so you’ll need to get a cab.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or I could call ahead and maybe---”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Donna.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” he said. “Really. I just… I wanna go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Josh repeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got your stuff?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a cab waiting,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t need me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay here,” he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll need you to fill me in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Josh—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michigan’s coming up, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, Kansas is a lost cause, but the polls are good for New York and North Car—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Josh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He froze, spinning around to look at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about us, okay? Go be with your mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gratitude swelled in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he managed, voice taut with emotion.</span>
</p><p>He hugs her, too caught up in his grief to realize she’s taken aback for a moment, and makes his way to the cab. <br/><br/>It’ll be another long night, he thinks. And a long week after.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 1:22 a.m. August 8th, 2000. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Donna’s a talker.</p><p>She talks, a lot, especially when she’s nervous, which is weird, because Donna’s definitely an introvert, but her thoughts just kind of spill out into the open. </p><p>So it’s slightly unbearable when she's in a situation and doesn’t know what to say. </p><p>C.J ushers Sam off to fix some jargon for her next briefing. </p><p>Which leaves Donna alone with the First Lady.</p><p>She doesn’t recall ever really speaking to the woman. </p><p>But there she was, looking disheveled and worn out.</p><p>“It’s a beautiful ring,” Dr. Bartlet said, watching Donna fidget with said jewelry.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said. “It was my grandmother’s.”</p><p>She paused, before adding: “She’s not dead. She was just going through her jewelry box one day and gave it to me; I was like, nine, maybe. I liked to pretend it was an heirloom or some kind of treasure. I know it’s probably nothing special, Nana said she couldn’t even remember where it came from, but I like to pretend.”</p><p>Abbey smiled. “If it’s got a story, it’s a treasure. And it sounds to me like it’s got a story.”</p><p>“Sorry, I’m rambling.”</p><p>“Honey, I married Jed Bartlet. You’re not rambling.”</p><p>“Well, thanks for listening, anyway.”</p><p>Abbey inhaled, looking out the window. “My mother used to tell me it was a woman’s job to listen. She meant it in an ‘obedience to thy husband’ sort of way. But I didn’t hear it like that.” </p><p>“No?”</p><p>“Listening is understanding, Donnatella.”</p><p>Donna tilted her head. “Huh.”</p><p>“It’s something we need more of in the government.”</p><p>“Women or listening?”</p><p>Abbey chuckled at that. “Both. We’ll take it up with Josh when he’s out.” </p><p>They sobered for a minute, faltering, before the doctor continued. “He’s a stubborn one.”</p><p>“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Donna replied with a watery chuckle.</p><p>“He reminds me a lot of Jed,” she said.</p><p>“How so?”</p><p> “He’s as thick headed as they come. He’s a genius who can’t see the big picture. First time I met Josh Lyman I was charmed by his eloquence, his wit. Charisma. By our first real conversation, I wanted to put his head through the wall.”</p><p>“He has that effect on people,” Donna said. “It’s the stubborn streak.”</p><p>Abbey took her hand. “He’s a fighter.”</p><p>Donna inhaled shakily. “He’s picked fights with half the House of Representatives, fought the press corps, Sam had to drag him out of session before he could throw down on the Senate floor. And he was just a congressional aide.”</p><p>“And he’ll keep fighting through tonight,” Abbey concluded.  “And everything after.”</p><p>Donna stares at her ring, trying to quell the tears. </p><p> Donna remained silent. </p><p>“Sharp as a tack, that Jed Bartlet,” Abbey continued. “But the way he proposed… he could give great orations to a crowd of thousands, but he fumbled with that little four word question. I daresay I answered it before he’d even really asked.” </p><p>“One of these days, it’ll hit him,” she said. “Josh, that is. One of these days he’ll finally understand.”</p><p>“What d’you mean?”</p><p>Dr. Bartlet sent her a knowing look.</p><p>“Is it that obvious?”</p><p>“No,” she said with a soft sigh. “But I’m a woman, Donnatella. I just know these things.” </p><p>“You make it sound so simple.”</p><p>“It is,” she countered. “It’s so simple, but rarely easy, loving a man like that.”</p><p>A doctor came to the doorway. “Dr. Bartlet? He’s awake.”</p><p>The First Lady squeezed her hand before following the doctor down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>1:44 a.m.</p><p> </p><p>It’s bizarre, she thinks, fidgeting against the discomfort of the hospital chair. A mere thirteen hours have passed since she was walking through the bullpen, listening to Josh bitch about going for a run with Hoynes. </p><p>Curtis was supposed to fix his broken chair, she realizes, mind and body numb. </p><p>She’d call him in the morning, make sure it was fixed for when Josh came back.</p><p>(<em> If </em> he came back.)</p><p>No, a part of her mind murmured, <em> when.  </em></p><p>(He had to come back. He just had to.)</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 3:29 a.m.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Leo snapped his phone shut, exhaling. </p><p>He could feel their eyes on him.</p><p>“That was Butterfield,” Leo said, cutting off C.J.’s question before she could even ask. “They got the third guy.”</p><p>A look of relief washed over her face. It was gone in a instat, reverted back to the carefully schooled expression she wore in the press room.</p><p>“He’s in custody? Being questioned by federal law enforcement?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I assume we’re not currently releasing any information on him?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Name, ethnicity, motives?”</p><p>“Not a word.”</p><p>“Just covering all my bases, Leo.”</p><p>“That is what we pay you for.” He paused looking at his watch. “Think we could do a 4 a.m. briefing?”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 3:57 a.m. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Any word yet?”</p><p>“Not yet.”</p><p>Leo shook his head. “What are we doing here, Dolores?”</p><p>“Being patient and keeping faith,” she said crisply. “You might try it some time.”</p><p>“Patience is a virtue I’ve never possessed,” he replied. “You know that.”</p><p>“You’re worse than Jed, I swear.”</p><p>“That bad?”</p><p>“Abbey said he’s doing well,” she said, changing course. “Given the circumstances.”</p><p>She looked at him over her glasses. “Come get me when he’s mostly coherent, will you?”</p><p>“Where are you—?”</p><p>She motioned to Charlie, standing alone down the hall. She smoothed her skirt, and strode off in his direction. “Son of a bitch,” Leo whispered to the empty hallway. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> 4:03 a.m.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The door creaked open, but Charlie barely looked up. He saw a pair of patent leather shoes, the sensible kind women around the office wore. </p><p>Mrs. Landingham. </p><p>“How are you, Charlie?” she said, sounding far more weary than Charlie had ever known her to be.</p><p>“I’m okay,” he conceded, “It’s just been a long day.”</p><p>She looked up at him, over the rims of her glasses. “It’s been a long year.”</p><p>“Nine months,” he said. “Nine months in the White House.”</p><p>“I know, Charlie.”</p><p>He exhaled, looking determinedly at the ceiling. “I don’t get it.”</p><p>“I wish I had the answers.”</p><p>“I called my sister,” he breathed, so softly it was almost lost in the hospital air.</p><p>“Deanna,” she supplied. </p><p>“Yeah,” Charlie continued. “She was with some friends, saw the news bulletin. Spent an hour trying to get ahold of me. And then… she was crying, I could hardly understand what she was trying to… she just kept saying how she thought this was ‘just like Mom.’”</p><p>“Oh, Charlie…”</p><p>“I hate this,” he choked out. “I hate that I put Deanna through this. And Zoey and the President, and God, Josh is… and to realize my mom— that was the last thing she ever— God.”</p><p>“Charles Young,” she said firmly, snapping back into her mom voice: a voice she didn’t use often. Her boys had been Charlie’s age when they were in ‘Nam. “You didn’t do this. This is not on you. And if I ever hear you suggest anything to the contrary, I’ll knock some sense into you myself.”</p><p>He smiled, dark eyes bright with tears. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Are you a member of West Virginia White Pride, Charlie?”</p><p>“I— what?”</p><p>“Are you a gun-toting neo-Nazi?”</p><p>“No, ma’am.”</p><p>“Would you ever do anything to put Zoey or Deanna or Josh in harm’s way?”</p><p>“Never.”</p><p>“You serve at the pleasure of the President,” she said, a fierce glint in her eye. “And the whole world knows it.” </p><p>“Okay,” he murmured. She grasped his hand tightly before walking away. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> July, 1998  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay, I get it!”</p><p>“I don’t think you do, but go on.”</p><p>“Josh.”</p><p>“Toby.”</p><p>“It’s pretty basic public policy, I think I can handle it.” </p><p>“You sure? ‘Cause your slip-up with the welfare thing—”</p><p>“Oh, for the love of— <em> he improvised that!” </em></p><p>“Write better and he won’t have to.”</p><p>“I could write Jed Bartlet the goddamn Declaration of Independence and he’d wing it! And <em> I’m </em>the one who doesn’t get it?”</p><p>“No, you’re the one who’s being a jackass about it.”</p><p>“I don’t know what to tell you, Josh. Really, I don’t know what exactly you wanna hear—”</p><p>“I want you to work in that bit about the comparative education models—”</p><p>“It’s on education reform, not tearing down the whole system—”</p><p>“That’s how you reform! Out with the old—”</p><p>“Yeah, but that doesn’t get us—”</p><p>“It’s a dated system!”</p><p>“I know that, but we can’t just radicalize education—”</p><p>“You’ve radicalized everything else—”</p><p>“Going rogue does nothing—”</p><p>“It’s not going rogue, I just think we need—”</p><p>“I want us to take a firm stance on an issue instead of—”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s why we need to convey our actual plan for addressing the issue instead of jumping to—”</p><p>“Just add the part about the international rankings—”</p><p>“How does international rankings get him elected—”</p><p>“He’s a progressive candidate, it’s about changing—”</p><p>
  <em> “Hey!” </em>
</p><p>Their heads swiveled in unison.</p><p>Sam cleared his throat. “If you two are done, I’ve got the language worked out. I added a sentence about the rankings and the agrarian calendar thing. We should be good.”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Present. 5:12 a.m. EST. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, we should be good.”</p><p>“It’s not up for discussion.”</p><p>“Add it in, we’ll be fine.”</p><p>“I don’t care what you say, Sam.”</p><p>“C.J.—”</p><p>“Really, I don’t. I made my point in the last briefing.”</p><p>“Yeah, but there’s more to it than that.”</p><p>“We’re fighting a losing battle on gun control already,” Toby countered. “This’ll just get them tangled up in verbal red tape for a day and a half and go right back to neutrality.”</p><p>“We can’t afford to be neutral when lives are on the line!”</p><p>“You think I don’t know that?”</p><p>“I’m starting to think you want this kept quiet.”</p><p>“The President was <em> shot </em>, Sam,” he absconded. “We can’t keep that under wraps. I’m just saying, let’s not make it political.”</p><p>C.J looked bewildered. “Not make it— are you kidding me?! We <em> are </em>political, this is… are you insane?”</p><p>“Losing battle,” Toby said again. </p><p>“So, what, a losing battle doesn’t afford to be fought?”</p><p>“‘We shall not fight our battles alone,’” Sam said quietly. “‘There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.’”</p><p>Toby furrowed his brow. “Who said that?” </p><p>“Patrick Henry,” Sam said with a little shrug. “A little monologue ending with—“</p><p>“Give me liberty or give me death.”</p><p>“Now <em> that’s </em>an angle we could go with,” C.J. interrupted. “Sam, polish that up, toss a Bible quote out, we can use that in a formal statement.”</p><p>“Morning shows?”</p><p>“That’s a little too heavy to take at 7:40 with a cup of coffee.” </p><p>“That’s politics, kid. Polish it up and we’ll get it out there.”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p><em> 6:43 a.m. </em> </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got White House Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn with us this morning to address last night’s attack in Rosslyn, Virginia. Mr. Seaborn, sources are reporting that the attack was an instance of Islamic militant groups—”</p><p>“I’m gonna stop you right there, Janet. What happened last night was not in any way, shape, or form connected to any external parties.”</p><p>“Mr. Seaborn, are you saying last night was <em> not </em> a terrorist attack?”</p><p>“I’m talking about domestic terrorism, an all too clear and present danger in America.”</p><p>“Do we have any insight on what factions might be behind this?”</p><p>“Their motives are clear enough, Janet. I think naming them brings them undue recognition, and often  inspires imitations. But nevertheless, the actions taken by members of West Virginia White Pride indicate a much larger rift amongst the American public.”</p><p>“Do you really believe West Virginia White Pride to be such a sizeable threat to democracy?”</p><p>“I think hate is the most powerful threat there is.  Prejudice, racism, bigotry… it’s all so deeply rooted in our societal makeup that our first instinct is to point fingers and blame when these things happen. I think what happened last night was just a symptom of a much larger disease that threatens to root out democracy.”</p><p>“As a white male in a society led predominantly by white men, do you think you have the authority to speak out on racial inequality, Mr. Seaborn?”</p><p>“Technically, as an American citizen in a society based on freedom of thought and action, I have the ability to speak out on anything I so choose, Janet. Perhaps I’m not the leading authority, but I believe these types of battles are best fought alongside friends. It’s been said that ‘the battle is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.’ It’s this philosophy we employ any time we stand up for what we, the people of the United States, believe in. And I believe if we don’t stand up against such gross injustices, we’ve fallen out of alignment with the values that are supposed to be at the heart of our nation.”</p><p>Sam looks at the camera and nods. “Thank you for your time.”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> November, 1998. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hoynes is still in Ohio,” Sam said. “Florida’s in, landslide.”</p><p>“That’s a given,” Josh called. “Where are the exit polls, I need—”</p><p>“They haven’t released them yet,” Donna said. “I’ll let you kn—”</p><p>“I swear to God how long does it take to <em> ask some goddamn questions? </em> Sam! <em> ” </em></p><p>“We’re working on it!”</p><p>“We’ve got three hours left ‘til polls close on the West coast, and nobody’s figured out the South yet?”</p><p>“Ohio <em> just </em>closed, Josh.”</p><p>
  <em> “There are more states than fucking Ohio, Donna!” </em>
</p><p>“Really? Because fifteen minutes ago—”</p><p>
  <em> “I KNOW WHAT I SAID DAMN IT WHAT THE HELL’S HAPPENING OUT THERE?” </em>
</p><p>“Josh—”</p><p>“We swept the Northeast, Josh—”</p><p>“Not Maine! And Pennsylvania’s still—”</p><p>“What’ve we got, Toby?”</p><p>Toby was scrutinizing the whiteboard before him. “We’ve got Florida, Georgia, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Delaware, Rhode Island, New Jersey, New York, West Virginia, Indiana, Iowa, Missouri,—”</p><p>“We got West Virginia but not Virginia? What the f—”</p><p>“They just called Minnesota and the Dakotas,” C.J. hollered.</p><p>“For us?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“No for Washington,” Sam interjected.</p><p>“D.C. or the State?”</p><p>“The one with actual votes.”</p><p>“Shit!”</p><p>“They’re calling Texas!” C.J. yelled.</p><p>
  <em> “Ready to call Texas for Governor Heyward, an additional 32 Electoral Votes—” </em>
</p><p>The room hardly had time to process before Josh put his fist to the wall.</p><p>“Shit!”</p><p>Toby threw his hands in the air, Sam put a hand to his mouth. </p><p>“Sweet mother of God,” C.J. murmured. </p><p>“That puts them at—”</p><p><em> “Two-twelve!” </em>Josh was screeching. </p><p>“We’re at 252,” C.J. called. “Michigan would take us to an even 270.”</p><p>“Yeah, but if they get Illinois and Pennsylvania it’s over,” someone said quietly. </p><p>“What in the name of God is happening in Wisconsin?”</p><p>“Recount.”</p><p>“Somebody get Leo in there!”</p><p>“How many is—?”</p><p>“Eleven. 22 for Illinois, eighteen in Michigan.”</p><p>“No word on Pennsylvania—”</p><p>“We have the West Coast, but nobody can tell me what’s going on—”</p><p>“Leo, what the hell—”</p><p>“Hoynes was supposed to have Texas in the bag!”</p><p>“Josh!”</p><p>Leo walked in. “Meet me outside.”</p><p>“Leo—”</p><p>“Outside. <em> Now.”  </em></p><p>He slumped, and followed Leo outside like a reprimanded child.</p><p>“Pull yourself together,” Leo hissed.</p><p>“I’m—”</p><p>“I cannot have you losing it every time someone throws a number out,” he said. </p><p>“Leo, I—”</p><p>He stopped pacing and met Josh’s panicked expression.</p><p>The kid looked like he was gonna cry. Probably hadn’t slept more than an hour or two a night in the last month. </p><p>He immediately felt guilty.</p><p>“We’ll get through this, alright?”</p><p>“Leo, it’s down to these four—”</p><p><em>"Omnes una manent nox," </em>Leo replied.</p><p><em>"Que sera, sera,"</em> Josh quipped. </p><p>"You're a lawyer, you don't know Latin?"</p><p>"Not conversationally," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair.</p><p>"'The same night awaits us all.'" </p><p>"Sounds ominous."</p><p>"In the meantime, there's nothing you can do about it."</p><p>Josh shot him a look. </p><p>They stand there in silence, waiting on the world. </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 12:48 p.m. Tuesday. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Sam,” Donna said before he’d even uttered a greeting. “He’s awake.”</p><p>It’s quarter to one on Tuesday the Eighth. The summer sun is high over Washington, and the hustle and bustle of life in the capital continues. </p><p>Donna had hardly moved.</p><p>It’s quarter to one on August 8th, when the doctor finally— mercifully— emerges with news.</p><p>He’s stable. He’s not out of the woods yet. But he’s stable. He made it through the night. </p><p>She doesn’t realize there are tears flowing freely down her cheeks until Sam pulls her into his embrace and she allows herself to weep. </p><p>At 12:48 p.m., they make their way to his room. </p><p>He’s hooked up to a ventilator, machines teaching his heart how to beat again, pushing and pulling air to and from his lungs. </p><p>Sam still looks a little ashen. Donna remains frozen in the doorway. The President is just leaving.</p><p>"Sam, Donna," he says, the semblance of his normal jovial tone seeping into his voice and soothing Donna's nerves. "How are you?"</p><p>“Fine," Sam replies, words rushing out. "How are you feeling, sir?"</p><p>“Right as rain, thank you, Sam,” he replied. “You’re sure you’re alright?”</p><p>“Just a little shaken, that’s all.”</p><p>“To be expected,” he said. "It's been a hell of a day, and I'm told I was out for a good chunk of it."</p><p>“You can go in, Donna,” the President murmured, following Donna's gaze, her eyes trained on the man in the room. </p><p>Donna finally brings herself to speak. “How’s he—?”</p><p>“Stable. Abbey tells me everything went smoothly. Two blood transfusions. Broke a couple of ribs, that’ll take awhile to heal. They fixed his lung, but there’s no other organ damage. Pretty nice scar on his chest, but he’ll be on the mend before you know it.”</p><p>"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."</p><p>The President smiles. "I best be going before Abbey has a fit. I'm not supposed to be out of bed this long yet. God help me, I can handle the terrorists, but hell hath no fury like the lovely Dr. Bartlet."</p><p>Sam laughs, and Donna smiles through her tears. And with that, the Commander-In-Chief allows himself to be guided down the hall in a wheelchair.</p><p>"Donna?" a voice comes from the room, faint amongst the whirring machinery.</p><p>She can't help it. She runs towards the whisper.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p><p>
  <em> November, 1998.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“They’re gonna call it!”</p><p>Josh looked up. “Illinois?”</p><p>“Wisconsin,” Donna said, smiling. “And Michigan. We did it.”</p><p>“But Illinois—”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter, Josh,” Leo said grinning. “Michigan took us to 270 even. Wisconsin puts us at 281.”</p><p>“We did it,” Sam repeated. “They’re about to call Pennsylvania, but we… God, we did it!”</p><p>Sam was crying, pulling Donna into a hug. Toby was standing on the sofa, shouting the numbers like he was the announcer at Yankee Stadium. The Governor— no, the President-Elect—  was dancing with his wife, twirling her in a circle. She was laughing, kissing her husband deeply. </p><p>Zoey looked like she didn’t know what to do in the chaos, but she grinned when she saw Josh and Leo. Ed had commandeered a boombox, blasting the radio as loud as it’d go, some peppy ‘80’s song.</p><p>Leo turned to him, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “What d’you say we get some Doobie Brothers going, eh?”</p><p>Josh inhaled, caught off guard. </p><p>“Good job, kid,” Leo said, clapping him on the back. “Margaret! Get me a club soda with cranberry, would ya?”</p><p>“Joshua!” Donna called across the room, “Dance with me!”</p><p>C.J. and Sam are doing their best to replicate the dance from Dirty Dancing, Toby’s still on the couch like Moses on Mount Sinai, watching the numbers scroll on the TV like he’s receiving a message from the heavens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Leo at the radio, chatting with Ed and/or Larry. Margaret clinks her glass against Leo’s, and the man tosses an arm across her shoulders affectionately.</p><p>The opening chords of <em> Takin’ It To the Streets </em>fill his ears.</p><p><em> Illinois, </em> he thought. <em> Again</em>. </p><p>✧✧✧✧✧✧✧</p>
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